


The Sun Will Rise

by Dalee



Series: Safe Inside [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe – Mob, Captivity, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Torture, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Possibly Dysfunctional Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Sex Trafficking, Suicidal Ideation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Victim Blaming, past underage prostitution, selectively canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25397782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalee/pseuds/Dalee
Summary: Jason had dedicated his second life to helping people, carving out a territory for himself in the ever-unwanted East End and steering clear of the rest of Gotham.So he really,reallydidn’t appreciate being taken down by some two-bit wannabe gangbangers intent on flushing all his hard work hiding from the Wayne Family down the fucking drain.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Jason Todd
Series: Safe Inside [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865641
Comments: 41
Kudos: 329





	The Sun Will Rise

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by James Arthur’s “Safe Inside.”
> 
> **Do not use, edit, or repost this work, even with credit.** This fic should be found on Archive of Our Own (AO3) and _only_ on AO3.

I don’t care about whose DNA has recombined with whose.  
When everything goes to hell,  
the people who stand by you without flinching,  
they are your family. 

—Jim Butcher

* * *

On what he was pretty sure was Day Three, Jason could admit that he was going to die again. Which… wasn’t exactly _great_ , if he were honest, mostly because the thought of being taken down by these amateurs was a major blow to what pride he had, but he’d ultimately come to accept it. It—he hadn’t done nearly as much as he’d wanted to, hadn’t done nearly _enough,_ and he was leaving behind so many loose ends and open cases, but at least he’d done _something._

“Quit stalling, and _move,_ ” Bunny Teeth ordered, pressing the gun harder into his spine.

He would’ve snarked back, but dehydration tended to make that a bit difficult.

“Careful not to kill him, Frank. We already made the deal with Wayne, we can’t afford to not hold up our end of the bargain.”

_Of course your name is Frank,_ he sneered, only for all his thoughts to collide into each other like some horrific car accident.

Wayne, he’d said.

There was only one Wayne in the underworld. Or, well, not _one,_ technically, but “Wayne” could only ever refer to one person in Gotham.

_Fuck._

He almost wanted to laugh. It’d be so poetic, wouldn’t it, to die again by his Family’s hand? He half- _wanted_ to go through with it. But no, he couldn’t. They couldn’t—they couldn’t find out. Everything he’d worked for, every grueling training he’d completed, every organization he’d infiltrated—

Nope, not finishing that thought.

_Come on, Todd._ One last burst of strength, that was all he needed. He didn’t need to win, only escape. He could lick his wounds in private later and then stuff his face with some bread and pass out on the mattress. Not usually something that’d motivate him, but at this point, even _bread_ sounded good.

With a shaky, silent breath— _Get a fucking grip on yourself, Todd_ —he stopped walking. Predictably, Bunny Teeth closed in, pressing the gun harder against his spine, yelling, “Hey, what the _fuck_ did I just—”

Turn. Elbow in—not sternum, too dangerous—gut. Complete the turn and _run._ There’d been two other sets of footsteps, so three hostiles total. No bullets yet, so they hadn’t had their guns out.

Fourteen steps, corner.

Gunshots.

His wrists hurt like a _bitch,_ but he kept rubbing them. The blood would make things easier if nothing else, and it was too important that he get this stupid fucking _dramatic_ sack off his head. Could barely see anything.

Twenty-four steps, another corner. Two steps, and then the stairs. There’d only been twelve steps, no curves. He could make the jump.

His knees jolted—careless, should’ve distributed his weight more, should’ve tucked and rolled—and his bad knee all but _screamed,_ but he kept running. Above him were shouts and thunderous footsteps. No gunshots, they were saving it.

Almost there. Six more steps, and he’d be—

“Fuck!” he shouted, stomping down on one leg to keep from falling. It made his gait awkward, elongating it more than he otherwise would’ve. His thigh burned.

Six more steps. _Come the fuck **on,** Todd._

Gritting his teeth so hard it physically hurt, he kept running. The blood running down from his hip was sticky and cold. Jason worked his wrists harder, faster. He was losing too much blood. _Those idiots better not have nicked any arteries._ Dr. Quinzel might always be up to help, but she wasn’t that kind of doctor. There was only so much she could do.

He’d _just_ stepped outside, the Gotham night air muggy against his skin, when some fuckhead tackled him. He fell hard on the pavement, but his body felt mostly okay. His face, not so much, but he didn’t think he had any road rash.

“You fucking son of a—”

* * *

His wrist hurt, which, though it took him a moment to remember why, was to be expected. The shoulders? That was new. A stock of his body confirmed his suspicion: They were hanging him from something now. His arms and shoulders were a never-ending wail, and his left pant leg was sodden, sticking to his leg uncomfortably, so he must’ve been out for a few hours.

They hadn’t nicked an artery, after all, he thought a little blearily.

“—almost lost us the deal!”

And then Left Cheek Mole had to prove himself Jason’s _least_ favorite captor by underscoring that with a fucking taser to the ribs. He seized, which was _not_ good for his shoulders, and didn’t even bother to stifle the shout.

Laughter.

Of fucking course they’d laugh. They’d laughed the first time he’d pissed in his pants, when he’d shit in it, and when he’d scraped what little slop they _deigned_ to feed him off the ground. They thought themselves so high and mighty, thought they’d broken the big bad Red Hood. As if. He was an _East Ender._ It was humiliating, yeah, but he’d dealt with worse. Hell, he’d once had a john who—

Nope, not thinking about that.

“It’s fine, Wayne sent Grayson. He’ll understand.”

_Oh, you stupid fucks._ Grayson most definitely would _not_ understand. He had that Golden Boy act down to a _tee,_ especially for those high society shitheads, but he was as sadistic as they came. He’d beat someone to death with his bare fists for _fun_ if he had his way. It’d been one of his favorite things to do the few times B had given him free reign.

There was one john who’d—

_Not_. Thinking. About it.

He didn’t know what was more embarrassing, that his captors were so goddamn stupid or that _he’d_ been dumb enough to get captured by these idiots.

“Leave him. Maybe _that’ll_ teach him some manners.”

Right, _definitely_ new to the East End. God, aside from the obvious reasons, he regretted the dehydration. It made it hard to talk back.

When he heard the door close shut—three distinct sets of footsteps, so they’d all gone out, _incompetent_ —he waited a good five minutes in case any of them came back for any reason.

No one did.

With the sack still over his head, he couldn’t see shit, but given that they hadn’t come in with guns blazing when he’d forced himself into a swing—which _hurt,_ fuck, he was going to have to lay low for a lot longer than planned after this—he was pretty sure there weren’t cameras around.

It was insulting as hell, but it also meant he might be able to escape before Dickbag got here. As unlikely as this was to succeed, and as much as he seriously _didn’t_ want to do it, he still had to give it a shot.

He then immediately had to take a break and sobbed because _fuck._ He breathed in and out shallowly, pushing back against the nausea. Now wasn’t the time for it.

Attempt #2 was both better and worse, better because he could brace himself for the pain now that he knew what to expect, but worse because bracing himself did shit all and it _still_ hurt like a bitch. He also kept coming _this_ close to whiting out, a sharp high-pitched ringing in his ears, but he was short on time as it was, so he clenched his jaw hard and kept swinging.

He should’ve kept the helmet. It’d been a last, _last_ resort, but he’d crossed that line _miles_ ago.

And then, _of course,_ when he’d finally swung enough that he could twist his body and use the momentum to get at whatever he was hanging from, wrap his legs around the legit fucking _chain,_ and work his hands off the hook, they _had_ to come in.

It was just a graze, but the force of the bullet was enough to knock him off balance. He screamed when he landed on his shoulder.

“—I apologize, Mr. Grayson,” Left Cheek Mole was saying when Jason could hear again. “He’s quite the handful, but I’m sure a man of your caliber—”

Footsteps. _Deliberate_ footsteps because he used to startle easy and Dickbag had found that so fucking _hilarious_ until he’d accidentally pushed Jason into a goddamn panic attack.

Come to think of it, he thought, wrung the fuck out and on the razor-thin edge of hysteria, they’d started treating him differently after that, hadn’t they? Even back then, even with everything he’d done before and _after,_ they’d known that he wasn’t like them.

A hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t the shoulder he’d landed on, thank God, but it was _not_ happy, and he couldn’t bite back the resulting half-sob quick enough. The hand twitched. Carefully, Dickbag turned him onto his back, his other hand coming up to catch his head. He didn’t try to fight, too focused on not gagging.

Of all the ways he’d figured he’d die, choking on his own puke somehow hadn’t made the list. Optimistic of him, Jason realized now, but he’d rather it _stayed_ that way.

Dickbag fumbled with the bag one-handed, and Jason closed his eyes in time to not be blinded when he finally got the damn thing off.

A sharp inhale. “Jaybird?”

_Now, now, jaybird, you **know** better than to run from Daddy._

He forced himself to look up. And then had to immediately squint even with the abyssal lighting. When his eyes adjusted, it was to the sight of Dickbag’s face, haloed by the lights above him. He might’ve laughed—Dickbag, a _halo?_ —but the best he could manage was a pathetic cough.

Dickbag pressed a hand, a _shaking_ hand, to his face, against his swollen jaw. The fingers on the back of his head curled, almost into a grab.

“I suppose he’s pretty enough,” Left Cheek Mole said nervously, probably because Dickbag wasn’t reacting like he’d expected, “and he can _definitely_ take hits, Mr. Grayson.”

Dick’s fingers twitched against his cheek.

“And that _mouth._ I’m sure the idea of putting it to better use has crossed your—”

Dick’s hand left his jaw, and faster than Jason could track—though, really, that wasn’t saying much right now—he shot Left Cheek Mole.

Screams.

“Holy shit, what the _fuck_ —”

“Just wait a bit longer, Jaybird,” Dick said, voice quiet, but it was all Jason could hear. He put him down and moved away. Jason whimpered, but Dick only shushed him. “I’ll be right back, promise.”

He stepped away, and Jason closed his eyes. Weighed the benefits of offing himself while he still could.

And passed out before he could commit.

* * *

He woke up warm and _floaty._ The good drugs. B never made him take drugs unless things were _bad,_ and then it was always the good stuff.

It took him a moment for that thought to sink in, to remember what’d happened and that he needed to _focus,_ to get his damn head in the game because the good stuff was _not_ a good sign.

There wasn’t a weight on the bed, so no Dickbag, but there _was_ someone sitting by his bedside. Barbie. If it was B, he would’ve left before Jason woke up. Either way, it was fucking _fantastic._ Nice to know that even now, his subconscious didn’t register the Waynes as a threat. He hadn’t thought to get training to specifically rewire that instinct, had assumed that he hadn’t needed to, but that was evidently an oversight on his part. He was going to have to ask Talia for more training, and she’d—

Not thinking about it.

Movement, and then, “I know you’re awake, Jason.”

Much as he wanted to, and God, did he want to, he couldn’t keep playing dead. No one in the Manor would fall for it, and besides, while Barbie was… considerate enough, he supposed would be the word, to let him get his bearings after waking up drugged, she wouldn’t let him continue ignoring her.

Jason pushed himself into a sitting position. His arms shook with his body’s weight, and Barbie ended up having to help, keeping him steady with a hand on his chest and back until he got settled.

“Leslie said you’re be out for another two days.”

He didn’t try to speak, aware of the desert that was currently his throat, and sitting up had cost him all the energy he had, so he couldn’t lift his arms to sign either. Similarly, blinking Morse code was out. The thought alone sounded exhausting.

The _really_ good stuff then.

“We were really worried,” Barbie continued. “Too many injuries, too much blood loss, and you were in terrible condition to begin with. Leslie didn’t know how you were still alive.” Barbie smiled. “But you’re our little fighter, of course you’d still be alive.”

_Our._

Barbie had never been as touch-feely as Dickbag, but she was _just_ as possessive as he was. Where Dickbag almost constantly had a hand on his newest toy—an arm around his shoulders, a hand on his back, on the back of his neck, hovering way too close, and breaking the fingers of anyone who tried to touch him—Barbie had been more like B in wanting to control every aspect of his life when she’d warmed up to him.

The “our” made sense in that context, but only barely because she _shouldn’t_ be possessive anymore. He was a traitor, and Barbie had never tolerated those very well.

Coward that he was, he looked away. Not that that’d do any good, Barbie would just—

A hand reached out and, with a gentleness Jason hadn’t expected, turned his head back.

“Though I _am_ curious.”

A chill jackhammered down his spine.

“Why didn’t you come back to us, Jason?”

His heart beat wrong, and he could feel himself staring to shake.

They always kept their prisoners in the Cave. _Always._ He would’ve thought he’d earned himself worse treatment than their usual guests, but here he was, in a comfortable bed on the good stuff. It’d be the kind of thing Barbie would do, play to his fucking _idiocy_ in trusting them, play to that pathetic _desperation,_ to find out how he was still alive before letting Dickbag tear him apart for his betrayal.

Barbie had always liked to hoard information.

“I—” he managed before succumbing to a harsh coughing fit. The desert. He’d never been so thankful to have been deprived of a basic need before.

“You wait right here,” Barbie ordered as she backed away from the bed and turned her— _Don’t look at it._ “I’m going to get you some ice chips.” She frowned. “We would’ve had some ready for you, but you woke up very early.”

There was a question in her tone, Jason could hear it, but instead of asking it, Barbie said, “And I’ll let Alfred know you’re awake. He’ll want to make you something before you go back to sleep.”

He’d sooner slit his own throat than eat anything Alfred made. Alfred didn’t beat their guests, that was too messy for him, but that didn’t make him any safer than the rest of the Family. B might’ve turned the Wayne Family into the empire it was now, but it’d all started with Alfred. Like fuck he was going to forget that.

Beatings, he could take. _Had_ taken even before he’d joined the Family. Those were nothing new. But the kind of internal shit that Alfred specialized in? Yeah, no.

Barbie didn’t comment on his silence, just patted his good leg and said, “Rest up, Jason. You’re home now. You’re safe.”

Safe. Right.

Barbie wheeled out the room, throwing one last look over her shoulder before leaving. _Leaving._ Which. Yeah, she’d said that she was going to get ice chips, and yeah, she’d said she’d speak with Alfred, but Jason hadn’t thought she was actually _going_ to. They never left a prisoner unsupervised.

Playing the long game, he thought. Get him to put his guard down, think they still cared, that they _ever_ cared, so he’d be putty in their hands again. It’d worked the first time, didn’t it? A kind word here, a non-painful touch there, and he’d pledged his loyalty to them. He’d been so damn _easy._ A stupid street rat who’d thought the _Waynes_ would bother with trash like him, that he could ever be one of them with their sprawling estates, their wealth, their _power,_ their—

_B._

B, who knew all his weaknesses, the things he was terrified of. Who now had every reason to _use_ that knowledge against him.

The good stuff.

He could kick himself. This was _exactly_ the sort of game B would play. No need to get Dickbag involved. It’d be a harder hit to turn the son of a druggie into yet another addict, toss him out onto the streets, and watch him follow his mother’s footsteps and destroy his life all on his own.

Not—not his _mother_ mother. His—

He choked on a laugh.

Yank at the heartstrings he was too stupid, too _pathetic,_ to break, milk him for the only thing he was worth, and then destroy the very _core_ of him by turning him into the very thing he’d always feared becoming. That was _exactly_ like B and Barbie. He should be honored that they’d _both_ put their time and effort into little ole him.

Call him weak, but he was _tired._ It wouldn’t be long before everyone knew he was awake and Barbie came back, and he didn’t—he didn’t want to deal with that.

So he situated himself in a good position and, using what leverage he had, slammed his head back into the headboard. Ignored the pain and kept doing it again and again and _again_ until black crept from the edges of his vision.

The Waynes could be a problem for tomorrow’s him.

* * *

He should’ve offed himself while he had the chance, was Jason’s first thought when he woke up. The bed was too comfortable to be his, soft, warm, and comfortable in a way that told him it was an expensive one, a good quality one.

Dickbag must’ve taken him back to the Manor. Why he hadn’t taken him to the Cave, he didn’t know.

Another presence in the room. On the foot of his bed?

“You’re awake,” Dickbag said, so fucking _happy_ that Jason tensed.

He’d heard Dickbag that happy exactly _once,_ and it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

But while he’d _much_ rather not have to deal with a happy Dickbag, he also knew better than to try and fake slumber, to _ignore_ him, so he pushed himself up to sit. Almost immediately, Dickbag moved, hovering over him to help. _Stayed_ hovering over him, hands too close to his neck for comfort, until he settled and then finally, _finally_ sat back down. He was closer now than he was before, but at least he wasn’t touching him anymore.

“We should have breakfast. Alfred’s making all your favorites.”

No chance in fucking hell. He rasped out a huff of what could only very generously be called a scoff. Dickbag didn’t respond, instead sliding off the bed and walking toward the bedside table. Jason watched him warily the entire time and only barely managed to keep from startling when Dickbag took a cup from the bedside table and put an arm around him to help him drink.

Ice chips. Slightly melted, so Alfred must be replacing them at regular intervals for when he woke, and most likely laced with something. Nothing he could taste, but that didn’t mean shit. Alfred was good at what he did.

“Slowly, Jason.”

“I know.”

The arm under him flexed in response. Anger? Jason didn’t know, was too tired and, frankly, too fucking glad for any form of water, poisoned or not, to divert much attention to it. He should, though. He couldn’t afford to not be at his best, to _not_ find the motive behind every one of Dickbag’s actions.

No one left Wayne Manor alive, after all, not even him.

He huffed out a laugh at that.

“Something funny, Jaybird?”

He shook his head. There was a fifty-fifty chance that Dickbag would find it funny, but if he didn’t, he’d show Jason what _real_ humor was like. He’d seen that game before, thanks, no need for a second showing.

Dickbag hummed, letting the non-answer go, which was new.

“Babs said you hurt yourself.”

He… had? He couldn’t remember what Dickbag was talking about, couldn’t really _think,_ if he were honest, but he thought he remembered seeing Babs, so it was possible.

If he’d been smarter, hadn’t been such a fucking _coward,_ he wouldn’t have stopped at just _hurt._

Dickbag put the ice chips back down on the bedside table, but didn’t step away. Instead, he put his now-free hand on his face. If he didn’t know him as well as he did, Jason might’ve called it gentle, caring even.

“You need to be careful, Jaybird,” Dickbag chided, a softer remix of his early days at the Manor when Dickbag would casually try to maim him and then told him he needed to be more _careful,_ it’d be _such_ a shame if Bruce were to lose his new pet so soon. Then, in that upbeat tone of his that promised dark, _dark_ things, “We don’t want to lose you again.”

_A hand in in his hair, pulling his head back **hard,** a mouth against his ear, and, “We don’t want to lose our tempers again, do we?”_

“Jaybird?”

_A wet giggle, hands against his face, and, “I won’t let anyone take you away from me, jaybird. I can’t lose you.”_

“Jaybird, lay back—”

Bones broke under his fist. The nose, he thought distantly, but he didn’t care. He had to get _out._ Had to get the fuck away, run as far as he could, had to go to ground.

He had to go _home._ He’d be safe there—

Something hooked his legs and knocked him down before he could make for the window, and a weight landed on his back.

“Jaybird, _stop._ ”

He struggled and _fought_ as hard as he could, used as all the dirty tricks he knew. He had to go home, _he wanted to go home._

_Tsk, tsk, chickadee, the Waynes have gotten to you. But don’t you worry your pretty little head, Daddy has got. You. **Covered.**_

Hands on his arms—

_—readjusting, moving up to turn his head this way and that, a spark on his eyes, and, “A bit too tall, but he’s pretty enough.”_

“Jason!”

“Enough, Jason.”

He gasped sharply, like he was coming up for air.

_Bruce._

Why was—Bruce didn’t—he didn’t condone human trafficking, sex trafficking even less so. Sex trafficking of _children?_ No faster way to get the Wayne Family to come down on you. Bruce didn’t _tolerate_ child victims.

He was _safe._

He let out a sob at that, couldn’t not.

“Shh, Jaybird,” the man on his back whispered, bending down to whisper into his hair. “Calm down.”

_Shh, jaybird. See? Didn’t hurt at all. You need to listen to Daddy more often._

Footsteps, heavy and _deliberate,_ and then a rough hand against his forehead. It was _big,_ but he wasn’t afraid of it. These hands had never hurt him before.

“He has a fever,” Bruce said, his voice coming from far away. Talking to someone else?

“He _did_ look a little red,” the man said, a frown in his voice, which was strange and terrifying, why was it strange and terrifying? “But he was lucid when we were talking. I don’t know what happened.”

The weight disappeared from his back, and Jason immediately scrambled away, colliding into a wide chest— _Bruce_ —unable calm until thick arms were around him.

“You need to breathe, Jaylad.”

He grabbed the shirt under his hands. Couldn’t do much more than that, never mind inform Bruce of what was going on. Fucking incompetent, how was Bruce supposed to do anything if he didn’t have any intel?

“Dick, tell Alfred what happened. We’ll need Leslie to come visit again.”

The arms shifted, and he let out a terrified sound, but no, they weren’t leaving him. They were just readjusting their hold to—

To lift him up.

He pressed his face into Bruce’s chest. Couldn’t stop shaking, not even when Bruce went into bed with him. The shake started to subside, though, with Bruce’s hand in his hair. He liked it, always had. No one had ever touched his hair, touched him at _all,_ unless they were—

If his parents had, he’d been too young to remember it. And then he’d come to the Manor where people had been so intent on petting him.

Like he was their pet.

He probably had been, in retrospect. The stray mutt they’d so generously brought into their home, tamed with food and shelter like some dumb animal. They must’ve laughed. Lived on the streets _how_ long and he was _still_ this easy? It was a miracle a dumbfuck like him had lasted long enough for Bruce to find him.

“You’ll need to give me more names.”

“I don’t have names, Dad,” he murmured, the words coming out in a slur as he buried his face in Bruce’s chest. Hiding from the world, which was _such_ a cowardly move. Bruce didn’t like cowards, he needed to stop now before Bruce realized what a waste of time and resources he was and dumped him back where he belonged.

The hand in his hair paused for a second before continuing its ministrations.

If Bruce said anything in response, Jason didn’t know. He fell asleep.

* * *

Jason woke up alone in a cold bed. He didn’t know why _that_ was what woke him up, but he remained still, maintained the illusion of sleep as he tried to figure out whether he was alone in the room. He counted to five minutes before he was cautiously sure that he was.

When he pushed himself up, he noticed the second pillow. It was next to his own and slightly flattened as if it’d recently been used. It couldn’t have been him, he didn’t move much in his sleep. Dickbag probably. He was the only one in the Manor who’d do that kind of thing, just climb into someone’s bed while they were sleeping to platonically share the bed.

People couldn’t get close to him without waking him up, so he’d thought that he’d trained his body out of letting that kind of shit happen, but apparently not. He was going to have to ask Talia for more—

Not. Thinking about it.

Everything ached, one of his shoulders especially, the one he’d landed on, but the pain was all muted. Still drugged, but it was coming close to time for his next dose.

Not much time then.

Slowly, gritting his teeth—how long had he been unconscious?—he managed to get up to his feet and stretched a bit to wake his damn body up. He wasn’t at his best, which was bad enough, but he needed to at least be _good_ if he wanted to get the fuck out before someone came with the next batch of drugs.

No cravings, so not addicted yet. He relaxed at that. Alfred preferred efficiency and Dickbag a bloodbath, but B and Barbie had always opted for ruining people’s lives. Destroying everything they ever were or loved and driving them into a corner, only to take away even the option of suicide. For his betrayal, Jason expected nothing less.

~~Expected being a druggie by now, selling himself for the next high.~~

Nauseous, Jason made for the window. Not bolted or locked, and from the looks of things, there weren’t any traps either. Triggers, possibly, to alert the head B’s in charge that he was escaping, but nothing to actually _stop_ him, he didn’t think. They probably hadn’t thought he could at this point.

They didn’t know about his new healing rate.

Now or never.

He slid the window open and climbed out. It was nostalgic. He’d used to climb to the roof often to look at Gotham’s skyline or when things became too much and he needed to go out, go _up,_ to breathe again. It was one of the few things he’d had in common with Dickbag, their appreciation for high places.

_An owlish blink, a bubble of laughter, and, “You’re a bird, like me!”_

The nearest tree was a bit of a jump away. Way too far for a child and only barely possible for him, but he managed to catch himself on a branch before landing in a controlled fall. His knees didn’t hurt, even the bad one. _One_ good thing to come out of the drugs, reluctant as he was to admit it.

He had no doubt that the clothes he was wearing had been tagged with trackers and that they’d probably inserted some into him for good measure. He didn’t have the tech to see where or how many, but he _did_ have a safehouse he’d made for the sole purpose of burning it if he was ever tagged, and he knew a laboratory with a portable x-ray machine.

He’d figure it out.

* * *

Jason ended up going to ground for a little over a month. Not out of choice, though. He’d fully intended to go back to work after the first week. He didn’t trust the chucklefucks of the East End to not go out of control in his absence, and he had damage to control.

Shockingly, though, stopping a drug regimen midway didn’t exactly help with the healing process, especially when one of those drugs was apparently keeping an infection at bay.

By the time Jason was anywhere _near_ coherent enough to be of any use, he had to ease back into his training routine before he was ready to go back on the streets, and a month had passed. If he’d had to dig out any trackers—they _hadn’t_ implanted some in him, after all, which he figured said more about his condition than anything else—he didn’t know how much longer it would’ve been.

With a new, modified helmet in tow, fully armored, his escrima stick charged, Jason swung back to the streets, expecting a long night of reminding people that the East End was _his,_ and he didn’t appreciate anyone thinking they could fuck _his_ people up.

Except the night was quiet.

The hairs on the back of his neck raised, and his heart beat all kinds of wrong. He had to be wrong. He’d _pay_ to be wrong.

“The First Son, you know, he’s—he’s been hanging around the East End a lot,” Cherie told him when he’d swung by. East End’s sex workers knew to keep their ears to the ground, and they were usually willing to share what they’d heard and seen. He, in return, made sure to pay them _well_ for their information and that their pimps knew they weren’t to touch what he’d given them.

“He’s been cleaning up the streets?” he asked, dread hollowing out his insides.

“Yeah, and he’s been asking for you,” Baby answered, arms wrapped around his waist to keep himself warm. “Are—are the Waynes coming to the East End now?”

He wanted to say no. He _really_ wanted to say no. Except for the time Alfred had gone after the man who’d killed B’s parents, the Wayne Family didn’t typically bother with the East End. The lesser families might fight over it, but B cared more about controlling the city, which meant controlling the people in power, which meant the rich white people who’d sooner burn the East End and all her residents down than step in it.

But now he had a reason, didn’t he? Couldn’t let the traitor live, could he?

Jason swallowed.

“I don’t know,” he replied. _Lied._

The group fell silent, a grim hush over them. If the Waynes were coming to the East End, that meant a possible gang war that the police would no doubt ignore and that the rest of Gotham couldn’t care less about except, perhaps, as “proof” of how criminal-infested the East End was and they _would_ work toward purging the crime from the borough if they were elected into office and blah, blah, _blah._

As if they weren’t in the pockets of the very crime families _doing_ the crime in the East End. As if the people here were breaking laws for shits and giggles.

“Thanks for the info, guys,” Jason said pulling out a roll of hundreds. Not as big a haul as he normally carried around, but with the month he’d been down, trying to not die and cut off from his usual income streams, it was all he could afford to give, and even _that_ was pushing it.

“I’ll give youse a heads-up if the Waynes come,” he promised them. It wasn’t much, especially when _he_ was the reason for the Waynes giving a shit about the East End to begin with, but it was better than nothing.

It’d be better if he just offed himself. Take away the reason for the Waynes coming, and maybe they’d leave the East End be, but.

But _God,_ he was such a fucking coward.

“Take care of yourself, Red,” Tasha said with a frown. “We all heard about what happened last month.”

Which was _great._ Months of cultivating a reputation of being untouchable, unstoppable, and unrelenting, of being the boogeyman in the dark who _would_ come for you, for _nothing._

All of the other clusters of sex workers he checked in on said the same thing, that Dickbag had been around, keeping the East End more or less calm in his absence, and were the Waynes finally coming for the East End?

Dickbag had been… not keeping the streets clean exactly since he was shedding blood wherever he went, beating people to a pulp and occasionally killing them, but he _had_ been keeping Jason’s territory in check while he’d been on the mend, and Jason couldn’t fathom _why._ There was no incentive to do it, nothing the Waynes could gain, and it wasn’t like Dickbag had to do it to hunt him down.

Jason couldn’t afford to waste time trying to figure out their motivations, though, not when there was a chance the Wayne Family had decided they wanted the East End for themselves. People here hadn’t seen an all-out gang war since about eight, almost nine, years ago when Dent had taken out two major crime families, but they never forgot the resulting power vacuum and bloodbath.

GCPD hadn’t done shit then, and they wouldn’t do shit now. Gordon was a Wayne associate. He wouldn’t explicitly help, but if the Wayne Family decided to wage war for the East End, he’d make sure his people stayed away unless he was specifically sending someone to die in his bid to rid his Department of corruption.

Good a guy as Gordon was for a cop, he wouldn’t move for the street trash who lived in the East End. Better to keep the devil you know on your side than anger him.

After checking in with the last group, Jason swung to the rooftop of an apartment complex that was currently under renovation. The neighborhood it was in, Rusty Creaks, was being gentrified, the long-time residents there already displaced. Jason had been in the middle of discrediting all the assholes involved with the process and stopping it dead in its tracks when he’d been taken. The gentrification hadn’t progressed much further since he’d last seen it, for some reason. He needed to check in on it again, see what the hell had happened because it almost looked like it’d stopped, which made no sen—

A presence.

He turned in time to see Dickbag land on the rooftop and took out his escrima sticks, the electricity already running. A futile gesture, he knew. After all, this was _Dickbag._

The same Dickbag who didn’t have any weapons on him.

Fuck, he was going to die. He was going to die _slowly_ because of course this would be one of the few times B let him have free reign. Unarmed or not, Dickbag wasn’t an easy opponent. He could walk into a _gunfight_ with nothing but his fists, and he’d _still_ kill everyone in it slowly and painfully enough that they’d be begging for it.

He was frowning.

Dick was _frowning_ , and he looked _pissed._ Jason had never seen him not smiling before.

“Where _were_ you?” he all but _snarled,_ and Jason took a step back, felt his heart speed up overtime. Dick Grayson had _one_ mode: Golden Retriever. Whether he was dealing with Gotham’s upper crust, dealing with the other mob bosses, or torturing people for breaking the Family rules, Dick smiled and was all around cheery, if occasionally airy. Jason had honestly thought Dick was incapable of being anything else.

“You were gone a _month,_ ” Dick continued, stepping forward, _stalking_ toward him. Jason didn’t think, just turned on his heel to _run,_ but a fucking steel band wrapped around his middle and yanked him back before he got far.

“ _You don’t get to run._ ”

His escrima sticks.

Except, just as he thought it, as he was about to slam the taser end into Dick’s thigh, Dick _moved,_ changed his hold into something more full-body, something that restricted Jason’s movement completely.

“Calm _down,_ ” Dick demanded, like that was possible in a situation like this. “You’re going to work your way into a panic attack if you keep this up.”

“Let me _go,_ ” he snarled back, struggling against the hold, and _fuck,_ his voice had broken. He couldn’t present anything but a strong front, but he couldn’t—couldn’t—

A click of a tongue. “You’re wearing this damn thing _again?_ ”

He let out a ragged breath.

“You know we found your other helmet? Bruce was pissed when Babs found the bomb in it.” Dick’s fingers felt around the edge of his helmet, searching for the release mechanisms.

He choked on a laugh. “Try taking it off, _I dare you._ I got false latches on it rigged to trigger the bomb.” It was a small one, and he’d made sure that the metal of his helmet would be able to contain the explosion so that no one would get hurt. It was one of the recent modifications he’d made to the helmet, so if all the Waynes had to go on was the helmet he’d lost, they wouldn’t know, and he might have a leverage.

He might be a street trash, but he _did_ eventually learn his lesson. _No one_ was going to de-mask him again. He’d sooner die.

Dick paused, and his hold tightened until he was having trouble breathing.

“Jaybird, I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to get that helmet off, or I’m breaking both your kneecaps and _dragging_ you back to the Manor. We’ve been taking _good_ care of your territory while you were gone, so it’s the _least_ you owe your family.”

Family, he’d said, as if he’d ever been anything more than a low-level enforcer, the Waynes’ _pet,_ the _failure_ who’d gotten himself killed and who couldn’t even do _that_ right.

Dick stepped away, but Jason didn’t think to use his newfound freedom and space to his advantage. He was still too close, and much as he’d improved with the League’s training, he wasn’t so naïve as to think that he could be a match for _Dick Grayson,_ the man who’d successfully been enforcing the Wayne Family’s rules for over a decade. The man who, as a child, had almost singlehandedly been responsible for the Maroni Family’s downfall.

He wasn’t that naïve.

_Fucking street rat. At least Grayson was good. Don’t know why the boss bothered with this one, he might as well drown the little shit in the gutter._

_You’ve seen the kid, Mike. The **mouth** on ’im. Heard he turned tricks down Smith Row. Why do you **think** the boss is keeping him around?_

He dropped his helmet onto the rooftop. It rolled away to the side.

Fucking idiot. He never should’ve come back to Gotham. _How_ many times had Talia underscored just how bad an idea it was? He should’ve taken her up on her offer, should’ve been just another mindless little mask under the League’s control. Another _pet._ What did it matter who held his leash if he was still the same dumb fucking mutt at the end of the day? At least with the League, no one else would’ve found out Jason Todd was still alive. The _Waynes_ wouldn’t know. Sure, his methods would’ve been more dubiously moral than he would’ve liked, and he’d be—at least he wouldn’t be _here._

Dick stepped forward. Jason didn’t dare move. What choice did he have? This went beyond fight or flight. All he could do was take whatever it was Dick wanted to dish out and hope that he’d be merciful enough to kill him when he was done.

He didn’t flinch when Dick raised his hand, didn’t flinch when it moved to the side of his head, but he couldn’t stop the reflex when Dick grabbed his hair and pulled to turn his head at the angle he wanted.

_Different hand,_ he told himself. _Different hand, different hand, **different hand.**_

“You didn’t have that bruise before.”

Oh.

He felt his cheeks warm, and his breaths stuttered.

“It was an accident.” A careless accident. He’d ended up bruising himself a lot this past month, mostly in the beginning when he couldn’t steady himself for shit.

What kind of vigilante bruised himself going to the bathroom? Pathetic.

Dick’s grip on his hair tightened.

“You’re not allowed to hurt yourself, Jaybird.”

He was going to throw up. He didn’t think any of that showed on his face, but the thought of _Dick_ seeing it, seeing a weakness because of course he wouldn’t miss it, made him tense, his bad knee aching.

“Let’s go home.”

_Welcome to your new home, chickadee!_

_**This** is your home now, Jason._

**_Different hand._**

Jason reacted before he realized what he was doing, before he could think through how _dumb_ an idea it was. He didn’t even know _how_ he’d reacted, his thoughts on a loop and half-feeling like he was choking. He just knew he had to _run_ because—

Because.

And of course he didn’t get far. Dick loved the chase, but he’d never tolerated _Jason_ doing the running. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide, couldn’t _anything_ from him, so it wasn’t a surprise when he was tackled down onto the roof before he could make the jump, his legs pinned together, a hand between his shoulder blades, and a gun against the back of his head.

He stilled.

“I thought we were done with this game, Jaybird.”

_Didn’t Daddy tell you he doesn’t have time for games today, jaybird?_

He shook.

He should’ve _listened,_ should’ve stayed the fuck _put._ He _knew_ better. If he’d listened from the beginning like a good boy, Daddy wouldn’t—

He bit down _hard_ on his tongue until blood was all he could taste.

_You don’t have a fucking dad,_ Jason told himself viciously. He was just another street trash orphan, just another _statistic._

A hand under his jaw—Dick’s, it had to be, they’d been talking earlier, hadn’t they?—forced his mouth open. Blood spilled out.

A beat, and, “Jaybird, what—”

“I’m not going back,” Jason blurted out. His voice came out small, and he cursed himself for it. He couldn’t afford anything but a strong, impenetrable front. Stupid fucking _lazy_ —

“Oh?” Dick shifted his weight, pressing more down on his back. To limit how much air he could breathe in, he thought, but he didn’t know if Dick was trying to slowly suffocate him to death or if it was his inability to stay still without subconsciously trying to hurt someone.

It was a toss-up. Either way, he thankfully had a very easy escape route.

He activated the bomb in his helmet.

Jason knew the second Dick realized what he’d done, when the sounds of the bomb ticking down grew loud enough for them to hear. That split second of realization was enough for him to break out from under Dick and scramble onto the next rooftop.

He didn’t look back as he fled.

* * *

Jason burned another two safehouses. It was a precautionary measure, and he didn’t regret it one damn bit, but _fuck_ was it expensive. He had none left now and no means of creating another one any time soon, which wasn’t a great situation to be in because now he was homeless.

So he went undercover.

It was a stupid idea, he knew, laying low by going in deep, but he’d spent literal _weeks_ tracking and gathering intel on this particular sex trafficking ring, and now was as good a time as any to finally dismantle it. It took a few days to build a good disguise for himself—some ratty, baggy clothes to make himself look smaller; greasy hair from days without a shower; a few skin patches to hide his more inexplicable scars; and pressing on his bruises to create the illusion of a beating—but in the end, he was satisfied with what he’d ended up with.

That he was a little gaunt also helped with the overall picture.

The next week, he spent on the streets, carefully, subtly avoiding the CCTV cameras while simultaneously establishing his presence among the other homeless. He didn’t bother trying to curb any impulse to help them above himself. It’d mark him as someone new to the streets, someone new to the East End, and an easier target.

By Day Nine, he was starving. Not literally, thank God, but close. It’d been a while since he’d come this close. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Even when he’d been captured by the Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest, it hadn’t gotten this bad.

It was good, he forced himself to acknowledge, to get this reminder. He couldn’t forget where he came from, and remembering it would only make him better at helping his people.

And then he was reminded of something _else,_ and he might as well have been disposed of in Gotham Bay mid-February.

“What do you say, kid?” he asked, his smile strained like he was genuinely hurting, but trying to put on a brave, reassuring front, all warmth and concern.

How the driver’s license in his hands didn’t shake, Jason didn’t know.

His lure had evolved. Giving a kid his driver’s license to “prove” the legitimacy of his offer was brilliant, and if he were any other kid, he might’ve believed it.

“I ain’t giving this back,” he warned, bringing it closer to him, and he didn’t have to add the waver in his voice, like he was a desperate little—

“That’s alright,” he agreed quickly, still warmth and concern. “You can keep it for as long as you need it to feel safe.”

He helped Jason back on his feet and led him to his car with a hand between his shoulder blades, never once straying below what could be dismissed as a protective gesture from an adult to a child.

Jason wanted to throw up.

He hadn’t—he hadn’t thought—

But of course he hadn’t. When the _fuck_ had he ever thought things through? All the time, energy, and resources both B _and_ Talia had invested in him, and he hadn’t learned a damn thing, had he? How could he _not_ know who all were part of the operation? After _how_ many weeks of research? Of gathering intel?

~~With this level of incompetence, he’d almost deserve what was coming to him.~~

His footsteps were heavy when he followed him, and he didn’t say or react suspiciously when Jason claimed the backseat behind the driver’s seat. The rearview mirror was angled so he could keep an eye on Jason, but other than that, there was nothing incriminating in the car.

Of course there wasn’t. He’d had years to perfect this routine.

It took twenty minutes to get to the apartment building eight minutes away. It was nondescript, and the area wasn’t great, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could get. A good choice in location. It’d be suspicious to go anywhere nicer. People like that wouldn’t come to the streets in the East End, wouldn’t think to pick up street trash like him.

Jason knew how this act ended.

They went to a corner apartment on the top floor. When the front door was opened, it didn’t have a direct view into the living room, but a few steps in and he could see them, a small group of two men and a woman. A gun pressed at the small of his back.

“No sounds,” he said, voice pitched low, and there was a smile in his tone, a victory won. “Step inside nice and slow.”

There was a closed door to the right of the living room, farthest from the front door. If they kept their victims here, they’d probably be in that room, but Jason didn’t think they’d be quite that stupid, not with how successful the ring was and with the amount of experience he had to have by now.

Jason stepped in. The door closed behind them.

“Good. Now, strip.”

The woman smiled at the sight of him, looked over his body from head to feet. “You found a good one this time.”

“A bit too tall,” one of the men said, raising a brow, not displeased per se, but not exactly happy.

“Some clients like it,” the other one replied. “Get off on overpowering them, you know?”

Heightism snorted.

By the time he was standing naked in the kitchen, Objectification was frowning. “He’s got scars?”

“Kids run away for a reason. Like it matters, though. You know there’s a pervert for everything,” Heightism reminded her, like it was something in need of reminding.

The gun pressed harder. “To the living room.”

He was trained. He could get out of this if he wanted to, if he tried. It was fine, _he_ was fine. Nothing he didn’t want happening would happen, and if it did, was it that big a deal? He needed names. Needed to know who their clients were and how they contacted them, needed to know who their victims were and where they were now. That necessitated sacrifice, he’d known that going in. He could take it.

Better him than a civilian kid.

Jason stepped further in.

He could take it, he told himself again. He’d done it before, he could do it again.

“I think I’ll go first,” No Kinkshame said, getting up.

Another step, then some more.

When he finally got to the living room, the gun disappeared from his back, but No Kinkshame grabbed him by the hair and kicked his shin hard. Jason let himself fall to one knee, made himself cry out in pain and _shake._

“On your knees, baby boy.”

_Come on, baby boy, you can do better than that. Don’t you want to get your mom her “medicine”?_

“Baby boy?” Heightism mocked, brow raised.

He shook his head. “No, please, I don’t—”

No Kinkshame yanked his head back, grabbed his neck with his other hand, and squeezed. A threat. “On. Your. Knees.”

He got on his knees.

“I’m starting to see the appeal,” Heightism said appreciatively.

“Men,” Objectification scoffed, “always so obsessed with violence.” Like she had any room to talk.

The hand on his neck shifted to jaw and forced it open. “Now, you be a good boy, you hear me? You bite, and you won’t like the consequences.”

_You be a good boy for Daddy, m’kay, chickadee, or Daddy’ll have to punish you._

When No Kinkshame took his hand off his jaw, Jason didn’t dare close his mouth. He didn’t want to be punished again.

A zipper being undone, pants rustling as it was lowered, and—

Glass shattering.

A body hitting the floor and rolling, a silenced gunshot. A brief pause and more gunshots.

The hand in his hair was gone.

He should—he should take cover.

Silence.

A familiarly calculated soft, “Jaybird.”

He flinched.

Movement, the crunch of glass under boots, and a body crouched in front of him.

Oh.

Dick was outside of arm’s reach, his hands held up to show that he was unarmed, as if that meant anything coming from _him._ His face was a complete blank. Jason didn’t think he’d ever seen Dick blank before.

“You need to breathe, Jaybird.”

~~He didn’t want to.~~

He was shaking, but he didn’t know if it was a _still_ thing or something that’d stopped and started back up again. Figured he’d calm down at the sound of gunshots, fucked up in the head as he was.

A breath. ~~Because he was a good boy.~~

“Good,” Dick whispered. Then, without taking his eyes off of him, Dick said into his earpiece, still in that soft voice, “I want someone here for pickup. We’re bringing some guests to the Manor.”

_Guests._

It was stupid— _so_ fucking stupid, not even the suicidal would take their eyes off Dick, that wasn’t just a death wish, but an invitation for _torture_ waiting to be taken up on—but he couldn’t keep from searching for that familiar face again. Couldn’t keep from staring at him when he found him, prone on the ground ~~but still so damn _big._~~

And of course that didn’t escape Dick. Nothing escaped Dick.

“Jaybird,” he said, his tone light, setting off _all_ the warning bells in Jason’s head, but he couldn’t stop staring at him, “do you know him?”

_~~Yes.~~_

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really, but then, he didn’t need to.

“Another name,” Dick said, and while there wasn’t a trace of the violence he was leashing in that tone, Jason knew different. Dick didn’t _do_ soft, he didn’t do light, and he didn’t do gentle.

So it made no sense when, instead of abandoning him or shooting him like he should’ve, Dick side-stepped to get in between him and the body.

“You’re coming home, Jaybird.” His tone brooked no arguments, but that wasn’t new. Dick never let the other party have enough of a solid ground to form arguments to begin with.

Hands on his shoulder, grip tight but not painful.

_He’s learning,_ he thought distantly, almost hysterically. The question, though, was whether he could keep it up.

Jason closed his eyes and slumped forward to rest his forehead against Dick’s shoulder. Another not-technically-suicidal move.

“What’ll it take for youse to just kill me?” he rasped out.

He felt the muscle under his forehead tense.

“I get it, I’m a _traitor,_ ” he continued wetly, but at least he wasn’t crying. The Waynes had seen him weak too many times already.

_You cry, Jaybird, and it’ll only tell them where to hit to make it hurt worse._

“The Wayne Family doesn’t tolerate failure or betrayal, I _get_ that, but you already did it, I’m fucking—” He choked. “You _won,_ so—so just kill me already. _Please._ ”

A beat, and then, “Oh, you stupid little fuck.”

Rare for Dick to curse, he thought absently.

A hand cupped the back of his neck, its grip looser than it’d been on his shoulders.

“If you were _anyone_ else, you wouldn’t have been allowed to escape,” Dick said in a fierce whisper. “Anyone _else,_ and you wouldn’t be here right now. You’d be down in the Cave or maybe you’d be rotting in Gotham Bay. Maybe you _would_ have ended up here, but because of _us._ ”

_Knew it, knew it, knew it._

“But you? You’re _different,_ Jaybird.” The grip tightened, on the border of painful, of choking. “You’re _family,_ and _no one_ touches you.”

Sweet words. He’d heard Dick spew sweeter.

_Do it,_ he told himself. _Break the fake tooth. Die already._

Shock of all fucking shocks, he didn’t.

* * *

Jason woke to a clatter of dishes. With a sigh, he sat up. He wasn’t in the habit of annoying the people in charge of the food, and that included not pretending to still be asleep when they both knew he wasn’t.

“Good morning, Master Jason,” Alfred said, and then, without prompting, put the breakfast tray over his lap. Oatmeal with sliced bananas and blueberries, buttered toast, scrambled eggs with shredded turkey, and a tall glass of water.

“Not the most extravagant of meals,” he continued, apologetic, “but I thought it prudent to err on the side of caution in light of the past two months.”

Not the most extravagant of meals, he said, as if this wasn’t more food in one sitting than Jason had had since he’d gone off on his own.

“No point in erring on the side of anything for a last meal,” he sighed. Dick might like to toy with him, and B and Barbie might like their mind games, but Alfred didn’t like to beat around the bush. If he wanted someone dead, they’d be dead within the week.

It’d been longer than a week since they’d found out he was alive, but outliers happened.

In the corner of his eye, Alfred paused, then pressed a hand against his forehead. Jason didn’t flinch, and he didn’t know whether to commend himself for controlling that reaction or damn himself for _still_ trusting them.

“No fever,” Alfred noted. “I’d hoped that Master Richard’s account of what’d happened was a product of re-traumatization and a particularly vicious PTSD episode, but I see that my hope was in vain.” He huffed, _affronted_ of all things. “I’ve no intention of poisoning the masters of this manor, Master Jason.”

It could be a lie, it wasn’t like Alfred was incapable of them, but Jason didn’t think it was.

“But _why?_ ” he demanded, sounding more desperate than he’d intended. “You’ve never bothered to play with traitors before, just _kill_ me and get it over with.”

A beat. Jason almost wanted to laugh at himself. What fucking leverage did he have to bargain for anything, to demand anything? All it did was show his hand, and now they’d know how fucked up in the head he was, would know how to hit to make it _hurt._ Great fucking _job,_ Todd, always a goddamn master fucking strategist.

“Master Jason, no one in this Family will kill you, and anyone who attempts it will meet a _well-deserved_ end by Master Bruce or Master Richard’s hands. I’d include Miss Barbara and myself in that list, but anyone with the audacity to even _touch_ you should have their end delayed in as gruesome a manner as possible, and that is not our specialties.”

Jason shook his head.

Alfred didn’t do mind games. He’d had enough of them for a lifetime, he’d said a long time ago. Things could change, of course, but—

But.

“Now, eat, Master Jason. You’ve gotten too thin.”

He still had the fake tooth.

He ate the oatmeal instead.

* * *

His next visitor was Kate Kane.

Jason tensed.

He hadn’t known her all that well before he’d died. She was the only living blood relation B had, but he’d sacrificed that relationship to make the Family what it was, careful to keep what communication he allowed between them light and shallow. Nothing that could be used to damage her reputation or sabotage her career.

And then she’d been outed and discharged.

B had been _pissed_ about that, he remembered, but he’d still kept her at arm’s length, intent on not dragging her into their world.

_She’s one of the good ones,_ B had said, _and this world isn’t meant for the good ones._

And then Jason had died.

Before he’d come back to Gotham, he’d made sure to look into the Wayne Family’s current affairs. It was how he’d found out she’d moved back to Gotham, had found out she’d been at his funeral. Some asinine reporter had taken a picture of her, stoic as she stood at B’s side, arm around him.

That’d told him more about their relationship than any of the articles published about her, not that that was saying much. When most of Gotham’s media outlets wrote about her, it was all gossip, talking about her like she was yet another airheaded heiress with a silver spoon shoved up her ass and _not_ someone who’d been a well-trained soldier with an _impressive_ mission completion rate. Who’d been kicked out of an institution she’d devoted her entire adult life to for something beyond her control, for a secret she’d entrusted to someone who’d subsequently stabbed her in the back.

Yeah, he could see why she’d joined the Family.

“Alfred mentioned you were up,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

“Kane,” he greeted with an incline of his head.

She waved dismissively at him. “Call me Aunt Kate. Dick and Barbara already do.”

So she had a familial relationship with them. Nothing in his research had been able clarify what kind of relationship she had Dickbag or Barbie. Why she was extending that to _him,_ he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t Family. He’d paid his price, he’d gotten out.

~~But then, you never _really_ left the Family.~~

She walked over and sat at the edge of the bed.

“You know,” she started, “I always regretted not having met you before you died.”

Jason nearly raised a brow. How straightforward of her. And she got along with B and Barbie?

“Anyone who can get _Bruce_ to act like that…” She shook her head. “I’m glad you’re alive now, though, and I hope you—”

_I’m glad you’re alive._

He choked.

Kane paused. “Jason?”

_Nope._ Not dealing with this, not dealing with this _ever._

“Whatever you were about to say,” he said, his words coming out _steady_ because he was actually good at not letting his emotions get the best of him, it was the one thing he was better at than Dick, “I don’t want to hear it. I’m not—I’m not Family, and I’m not coming back.”

She stared at him for a beat, expression damn near unreadable, but Jason had dealt with deader expressions. She’d realized something, but what? That he was a lost cause? That there was no reason to expend this much effort to, he didn’t know, re-recruit him? What bullshit did she—

“I gave them _way_ too much credit,” she said with a sigh, tilting her head back and putting a hand over her eyes. She stayed that way for a beat before righting herself. “You’re not part of the Wayne Family anymore, and normally, traitors are killed, but Bruce basically declared you untouchable.”

He _what?_

“And as far as _this_ family is concerned—the five out of six of us who has any claim to that name in any capacity—you’re a _Wayne._ Bruce and Dick are out there right now, personally dismantling the sex trafficking ring that took you, Barbara’s simultaneously acting as Base Ops and setting up a _fourth_ safehouse for you, and Alfred’s set up a _YouTube_ account to find good recipes for you that won’t wreak havoc on your stomach.

“And here _I_ am, apparently cleaning up their messes because they’re either psychopaths who don’t know how to human or too British and stereotypically male to talk about his feelings.”

… _What?_

“I’ve never seen Bruce as angry as he was when Dick brought you back,” Kane continued, brows scrunched in recollection, “and I honestly didn’t think it was possible for Dick to feel anything enough to stop smiling, so I’d assume it was pretty damn obvious, but I guess I’m more Wayne than I thought. Or maybe the Wayne thing is more of a Kane thing, I don’t know. Either way, I get why you don’t know or don’t believe it. Even _if_ they’ve said this to your face, they’re some of the _least_ credible people I’ve ever met.”

She looked him dead in the eye. “But they _do_ love you. You’re important enough that they’re willing to break or ignore their own rules to accommodate _yours._ ”

Jason stared.

“But words don’t mean shit coming from this family, so”—Kane pushed herself up to her feet—“you’re free to leave anytime you want. We won’t stop you. Look for yourself, and see with your own eyes.”

A brief second, and she ruffled his hair.

“It was real nice meeting you, Jason. I’d get it if you don’t want anything to do with those psychopaths, but I hope we can still keep in touch.”

And then she left. Just. _Left._ No confirming that he heard everything she’d said, no forcing him to agree, no trying to gaslight him or _anything._

It was a trap. It _had_ to be a trap. So what if she was more straightforward than the others? She was still a Wayne. Or a Kane, whichever. She was _Family,_ a more recent addition, yeah, especially for a captain, but she’d integrated herself so well that he’d yet to see evidence of friction between her and the other captains. She wasn’t any more trustworthy than the rest of them.

Forcing himself out of bed, Jason got out of bed and waited. Nothing. Carefully, he padded over to the window. It was the same room he’d woken up in the last time he was here, so he didn’t expect much, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t—

The window hadn’t changed. It—it looked _exactly_ as it had the first time around.

Cautiously, he ran a hand across the windowsill, feeling for any bumps or changes in thickness or grain or _anything,_ but no, nothing he could feel. But then, this was the _Waynes._ Of course they wouldn’t limit themselves to visible traps. There was a _reason_ why B had done the impossible and taken over the entire Gotham underworld.

He opened the window.

And waited.

A minute turned five, then ten, but no one came, and nothing happened.

Heart pounding, Jason snuck out.

No one came after him.

* * *

What did it mean when a notoriously ruthless crime family let you get away with things they’d never tolerated from anyone before? When they’d slaughtered people for less?

The sex trafficking ring had been dismantled. There had been a handful of deaths, but most of the people involved were in hospitals where they were awaiting sentencing. They’d be crippled for life, and GCPD was taking _special_ care with the dozens of kids who’d been rescued. They were even checking in on them to make sure they were well cared for while they were figuring out how to move forward with the case.

The four he’d dealt with had yet to be found.

That month that Dickbag had been patrolling the East End, crime had fallen and had _stayed_ down. Yeah, he’d killed to do it, but he hadn’t touched any civilians, and he’d been selective. Most had been given a good beating, but nothing crippling, not like those attempting murder. Would-be rapists, however, had been killed, their body parts strewn across alleyways, streets, wherever they happened to be at the time.

The gentrification plan for Rusty Creaks had been stalled, and there were rumors that it was being cancelled entirely with no plans to revive it in sight. Former residents had been allowed to return, no fees, no upcharges, and someone had hired moving companies to assist them free of charge.

There had been a key in his pocket when he’d escape along with a note. The note had led him to a loft, and inside had been nice but moderately priced furniture, food, and a wallet. The wallet had held a motorcycle license, a debit card, and another note, this one with login information. The license had passed every fake ID test he’d administered, and the debit card was for a checking account with tens of thousands of dollars.

What did it mean when that crime family let you escape and picked up your slack when you had to go to ground? What did it mean when they gave you the means to survive on a silver platter?

* * *

Stomach in knots, bile rising up his throat, Jason dialed a number. It was a burner phone, modified to hell and back to be nigh unhackable, but that wouldn’t stop Barbie. The Wayne Family had never been technologically behind, B had made sure that they kept up with the times, but Barbie had essentially _revolutionized_ how they used tech. No one was a match for her. Computers were her _thing_ the way torture was Dickbag’s and psychological warfare was B’s.

He and Dickbag were better than anyone else in the Family—he didn’t know how good Kane was, didn’t know if B had arranged for her to get the same training that they’d had—but neither of them could hold off Barbie for long. B was the only one who had a shot at that.

He’d limit himself to a few minutes then. No more than five.

The line connected.

_“Wayne residence, Alfred Pennyworth speaking. How many I help you?”_

Jason couldn’t breathe.

“Alfred,” he said, eyes closed as he mentally counted breaths. He needed to calm the fuck down, needed to breathe before he made himself pass out.

_“Master Jason,”_ Alfred replied, pleasantly surprised and—and _relieved._

“B—he knows,” he managed to get out as his breathing evened. He shook his head and tried again, “He knows I’m not coming back. And he’s—he’s okay with that? They’re _all_ okay with that?”

They were all _helping_ him?

_“You’re eighteen, Master Jason,”_ Alfred said, the knowledge coming so easy to him when Jason had to constantly remind himself how old he was, when he had to do math to remember. _“Legally, if you want to leave and start a life of your own, we cannot stop you.”_

Legally, he said, as if the Waynes had ever cared about that.

_“Realistically, you have… always been a little different.”_

Jason flinched.

_“It’s nothing against you, Maser Jason, but we’re aware that this is not the kind of life you’d thrive in, though I can’t say I approve of your current lifestyle either.”_

Yeah, he figured Alfred wouldn’t, nor any of the others. Letting his opponents live instead of offing them, going out of his way to make sure no one died, even at his own expense. He didn’t get hurt often, which was a point in favor to B and Talia, but often didn’t mean never.

_“But as dangerous as your life is now, as thin as you’ve spread yourself”_ —a note of disapproval, but that was par for the course, Alfred had never liked it when he thought Jason wasn’t getting enough of anything, especially food— _“this is the life you’ve chosen for yourself, and as I see it, you’re happier now than you were when you were with us.”_

Every bit of what Alfred said rang as a statement, a sure fact, but there was something about the way he said it that made Jason think it was a question.

“It’s not like I was miserable back at the Manor.” He’d had a roof over his head, food whenever he got hungry, and no one had made him pay for any of it, though he’d chosen to help with the Family anyway. It was honestly more than he’d expected from anyone back then.

He hadn’t been miserable, and he had genuinely happy memories of the Manor, but—

“But yeah,” Jason whispered, almost a confession, “I’m happier now.”

It was _hard,_ but not something he couldn’t handle. Nothing he _hadn’t_ handled before. And he could _help_ people. Sometimes, he was too late, and sometimes, he couldn’t do enough, sometimes failed completely, but he could _help_ now instead of—

Yeah, he was happier.

_“Then all the more reason for us to support you, Master Jason,”_ Alfred replied. Then, hesitantly— _hesitantly!_ —he added, _“Master Bruce and Miss Barbara can arrange for you to be legally revived if you wish, but if not, I’m sure you’ve seen the new identity they’ve established for you. The license in your possession is more or less real. You could, if you like, attain your GED and apply for university.”_

His breath caught.

What did it mean for that crime family to offer you your life back for nothing? To give you that option to begin with and court the inevitable media shitstorm? To give you a chance at something you’d _dreamed_ of but had sacrificed?

After everything, _given_ everything, he thought he knew what it meant.

He laughed wetly.

“Can you—can you ask them to revive me, Alfred?” he asked because much as he was still nervous as _fuck,_ even though he was still riding that razor-thin edge of not being able to breathe again, he thought—

Well, he _thought._ That was always his downfall, wasn’t it?

“No one _really_ leaves the family, after all.”

A beat, and then, _“Certainly, Master Jason.”_

Maybe this time, he could avoid pulling an Icarus.

**Author's Note:**

> If I’ve missed any warning tags, please let me know. 🙏🏼
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome. Constructive criticism, not so much.


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